Stop Scrolling Quotes

Let us break the deadlock and stop doom-scrolling into the narrative of a fluctuating landscape of dispiriting thoughts...but, instead, invite the flowers of compassion to blossom in our hearts and our minds and overwhelm us with a spray of vibrant petals of well-being. ("Absence of Desire" )

Alec, who was watching this back-and-forth as if sitting center court in a tennis match, raised a hand. “I’m sorry, but did you two used to date?” That stopped the conversation dead in its tracks. Both Tessa and Magnus turned to him with identical looks of shock. “You seem more horrified than I do,” Magnus told Tessa, “and somehow I am deeply wounded.

Alec’s breath caught. He found he could not stop holding it, as if he could save it for the child Magnus had been.

Leon, are you making a pass?" demanded Helen Blackthorn. "Why do you always do this? Stop hitting on people, Leon!" "But life is short, and I am handsome and French," Leon muttered.

We wait too long to tell the people we love that they are the very reason that we exist. We assume that our wife, child, other family members, and friends understand our love and affection. We assume that people we care about understand our enigmatic idiosyncrasies and willingly accept the shrouded reasons behind our demonstrable oddities. We assume that other people sense that we struggle valiantly in our blackened landscape. We presume that other people comprehend our struggle to glean meaning amongst the ashes spewed from the absurd circumstances that we operate. Sometimes we need to stop and tell the tenderhearted persons whom we care about that we love them and explain that our awkward strangeness is not a rejection of them.

But you can go on thinking and imagining forever further and stop at no decisions to pick up a bag for the thinkings. Turn your thinking into your work, your thoughts a book, in sieges.

Moon took up so much of his headspace. He caught himself watching her the way he used to watch Cobra, hoping for a glance that would hint she might love him back. He wanted to bring her new scrolls that would make her face light up. He wanted to make her soup when her visions gave her headaches and sing her silly songs to help her stop worrying. He wanted to fly beside her while she saved the world.

There were two ways of forgetting. For many years, he had envisioned (unimaginatively) a vault, and at the end of the day, he would gather the images and sequences and words that he didn’t want to think about again and open the heavy steel door only enough to hurry them inside, closing it quickly and tightly. But this method wasn’t effective: the memories seeped out anyway. The important thing, he came to realize, was to eliminate them, not just to store them. So he had invented some solutions. For small memories—little slights, insults—you relived them again and again until they were neutralized, until they became near meaningless with repetition, or until you could believe that they were something that had happened to someone else and you had just heard about it. For larger memories, you held the scene in your head like a film strip, and then you began to erase it, frame by frame. Neither method was easy: you couldn’t stop in the middle of your erasing and examine what you were looking at, for example; you couldn’t start scrolling through parts of it and hope you wouldn’t get ensnared in the details of what had happened, because you of course would. You had to work at it every night, until it was completely gone. Though they never disappeared completely, of course.

Pay attention the next time you’re scrolling to what hooks grab your attention. Why did you stop? Why did you click play? What did the hook say, and how did it make you feel? Answering these questions will help you to become amazing at developing hooks.

As I brush my teeth, I scroll through my phone to see if Sabrina texted when my phone was on silent last night. She didn’t. Damn. I was hoping my speech—and that amazing fucking kiss—might’ve changed her mind about going out with me, but I guess it didn’t. I do, however, find the most mind-boggling conversation in the group chat I have with my roommates. All the messages are from last night, and they’re bizarre as fuck. Garrett: The hells, D?! Dean: It’s not what you think!! Logan: It’s hard to mistake ur romantic bath with that giant pink thing! In ur ass! Dean: It wasn’t in my ass! Garrett: I’m not even going to ask where it was Dean: I had a girl over! Garrett: Suuuuuuuuure Logan: Suuuuuuuuure Dean: I hate you guys Garrett: <3 Logan: <3 I rinse my mouth out, spit, and drop the toothbrush into the little cup on the sink. Then I quickly type out a text. Me: Wait… what did I miss? Since we have practice in twenty minutes, the guys are already awake and clearly on their phones. Two photos pop up simultaneously. Garrett and Logan have both sent me pics of pink dildos. I’m even more confused now. Dean messages immediately with, Why do you guys have dildo pics handy? Logan: ALINIMB Dean: ?? Me: ?? Garrett: At Least It’s Not In My Butt. I snort to myself, because I’m starting to piece it together. Logan: Nice, G! U got that on the first try! Garrett: We spend too much time 2gether. Me: PLEASE tell me u caught D playing w/ dildos. Logan: Sure did. Dean is quick to object again. I HAD A GIRL OVER! The guys and I rag on him for a couple more minutes, but I have to stop when Fitzy stumbles into the bathroom and shoves me aside. He’s got crazy bedhead and he’s buck-naked. “Gotta piss,” he mumbles. “Mornin’, sunshine,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to make you some coffee?” “God. Yes. Please.” Chuckling, I duck out of the bathroom and walk the four or so steps into his kitchenette. When he finally emerges, I shove a cup of coffee in his hand, sip my own, and say, “Dean shoved a dildo up his ass last night.” Fitzy nods. “Makes sense.” I snicker mid-sip. Coffee spills over the rim of my cup. “It really does, huh?

The history of whiteness in America is one long scroll of affirmative action.

Another day. How long are you gonna scroll down? Semicolon Smile

The women you've slept with, the ones you never did but primed for a future encounter, the ones who seemed interested but then suddenly stopped texting: Unless you do something horribly wrong, they never completely disappear. A lonely night, a cheating boyfriend, a sudden breakup, an attack of low self-esteem, an attack of high self-esteem—anything can, out of the blue, send them scrolling through their address book looking for validation, for security, for conversation, for adoration, for the fantasy of you filling some empty space in her life.

About Bane. Don’t hurt him,” Raphael said abruptly. Alec hesitated. “No,” he said, his voice softer. “I would never—” Raphael held up a peremptory hand. “Stop being disgusting, please,” he said. “I don’t care if you wound his, as the kids say, ‘wittle fee-fees.’ Dump him like a ton of magic bricks. I wish you would. I just meant, don’t kill him.” “I’m not going to kill him,” Alec said, appalled. His blood ran cold at the idea, and colder as he looked down into Raphael’s face. The vampire was serious. “Aren’t you?” Raphael asked. “Shadowhunter.” He said the word the same way as the Downworlders of the Shadow Market had, but it sounded different in service of protecting someone Alec would gladly give his life to shield from harm. It made Alec wonder if the people of the Market were all looking at him and seeing a threat to someone they cared for. “Stop it, Raphael,” said Lily. She gave Alec a brief, surprisingly sympathetic look. “Kid’s obviously in love.” “Ugh,” said Raphael. “Terrible business. Let’s get out of here.” Elliott cheered. “Can we go to the after-party?” “No,” Raphael said with distaste. He left Alec and walked away without a look back. After a quick last glance, Lily and then Elliott turned to follow.

They are watching for magic, so avoid traveling by Portal whenever possible,” Tessa said. “You’re using a Portal right now,” said Magnus, amused. “Always ‘do as I say and not as I do,’ I see. Will you be safe?” Tessa was more than a century old, but she was so much younger than Magnus, and he had known her almost her whole life. He had never stopped feeling protective of her.

Don’t worry, Shinyun. I know a spell that can break out of all but the most powerful pentagrams.” Magnus waved his hands around for a second, then stopped and shrugged. “Oh yes, I forgot. I could have broken us out, but I lost my powers because someone poisoned me.” “I hate you,” Shinyun whispered. “I might add, Cursed Daughter is a terrible nickname,” said Magnus.

At this point, a faerie woman came twirling through. She had leaves in her updo and was swathed in ribbons and ivy and not much else. She tripped on a trailing line of ivy and Alec caught her. “Good reflexes!” she said brightly. “Also great arms. Would you be interested in a night of tumultuous forbidden passion, with an option to extend to seven years?” “Um, I am gay,” Alec said. He was not used to saying that casually, to any random person. It was strange to say it, and feel both relief and a shadow of his old fear, twined together. Of course, the declaration might not mean much to faeries. The faerie woman accepted it with a shrug, then looked over at Raphael and lit up. Something about the leather jacket or the scowl seemed to appeal to her strongly. “How about you, Vampire Without a Cause?” “I’m not gay,” said Raphael. “I’m not straight. I’m not interested.” “Your sexuality is ‘not interested’?” Alec asked curiously. Raphael said, “That’s right.” The faerie thought for a moment, then ventured, “I can also assume the appearance of a tree!” “I didn’t say, ‘not interested unless you’re a tree.’ ” “Wait,” said the faerie suddenly. “I recognize you. You’re Raphael Santiago! I’ve heard of you.” Raphael made a gesture of dismissal. “Have you heard I like it when people go away?” “You were one of the heroes in the Downworlder victory over Valentine.” “He was one of the heroes of the Downworlder and Shadowhunter alliance, which led to the victory,” Alec said. Raphael stopped looking annoyed and began to look nastily amused. “Oh, did the Shadowhunters help a little?” he asked. “You were there!” said Alec. “Can I have your autograph, Raphael?” asked the faerie lady. She produced a large, shiny green leaf and a quill. Raphael wrote LEAVE ME ALONE on the leaf. “I’ll cherish it,” said the faerie. She ran away, clutching the leaf to her bosom. “Don’t,” Raphael yelled after her.

Magnus was the one who hesitated. "Can I ask you something? You loved a Shadowhunter." "Do you think I stopped?" "When you loved a Shadowhunter, were you ever afraid?" "I was always afraid," said Tessa. "It's natural to be afraid of losing the most previous thing in the world. But don't be too afraid, Magnus. I know warlocks and Shadowhunters are very different, and there is a divide between your worlds that can be hard to cross. But as someone once said to me, the right man will not care. You can build a bridge over the divide and find each other. You can build something much greater than either of you could ever have built on your own." There was a silence after she spoke, as they both thought of the ages they had seen pass already, and the ages to come. The sunlight was still bright through the window outside Magnus's Rome hotel room, but it would not last. Magnus said reluctantly, "But we do lose love, in the end. We both know that." "No," said Tessa. "Love changes you. Love changes the world. You cannot lose that love, no matter how long you live, I think. Trust love. Trust him." Magnus wanted to, but he could not forget Asmodeus telling him he was a curse upon the world.. He remembered begging Shinyun with his eyes not to tell Alec who Magnus's father was. He did not want to lie to Tessa. He did not know how to promise he would do what she advised. "What if I lost him by telling the truth?" "What if you lost him by hiding it.?

Looking for something?" I asked, pointing my blade toward the piles of discarded books, scrolls, and papers. Her eyes never left mine, nor did she make a move. Interesting. Her gaze narrowed. "Damn, you are durable. I really thought dropping three stories on you would buy me a little more time.” I swiped my blade upward as she passed me. She took one step, then another, before stopping. I turned and flicked the blood from my blade as her arm fell to the floor with a thud. She hissed and grabbed where it had once been. "That was a hundred dollar jacket, you asshole!" she spat, looking at her ruined clothes, unconcerned with the missing limb. "Excuse me?

It seemed as if the people producing tech products were following the cardinal rule of drug dealing: never get high on your own supply.

A person must find the courage to live a complete and full life. We learn to live when we stop being afraid and by engaging in critical analysis of our own thoughts, motives, emotions, and behavior. A tolerant person who lives without fear extends charity to the entire world. Courage always precedes an act of human grace, which expresses the luminosity of the human soul.

A person must escape artificial constraints and unfold the myth of their own being. There is only one path for a thinking person in life, and that is to assume the role of a compassionate observer. I can only achieve personal freedom – liberty of the mind, body, and soul – by stop worrying about how other people perceive me and no longer judge myself in terms of fame and fortune.

A person can hurry through or sleep walk through life, but whenever they stop to catch their breath or awaken from a long nap, they will find apprehension, disquiet, and fretfulness waiting their directed attention.

Self-education is a lifetime affair. In life, as in science, there are unsuccessful experiments. Difficult personal and professional experiences are not for naught. Every experience contains a lesson. If we do not achieve the results we want and stop searching out solutions, it is not the experiment that is unsuccessful, but the person.

You never stop to think how the history of whiteness in America is one long scroll of affirmative action. You never stop to think that Babe Ruth never had to play the greatest players of his generation - just the greatest white players. You never stop to think that most of our presidents never rose to the top because they bested the competition - just the white competition. White privilege is a self-selecting tool that keeps you from having to compete with the best. The history of white folk gaining access to Harvard, Princeton, or Yale is the history of white folk deciding ahead of the game that you were superior. You argue that slots in school should be reserved for your kin, because, after all, they are smarter, more disciplined, better suited, and more deserving that inferior blacks.

No construction of thought represents a label, barrier, or a full stop. Each sentence, paragraph, and page represents an exploratory probe into the unknown; each statement is an act of experimentation, investigation, creation, and growth.

Stop waiting for something to happen. Stop waiting for someone to save you. Stop waiting for answers. Stop waiting for love. Stop waiting for the right moment, for the right situation. Stop waiting for relief. Stop waiting for clarity. To bring this to a practical level, how many times do you find yourself scrolling through your phone aimlessly, waiting for something to happen? Or spending every moment you’re not working, studying, or doing whatever it is that you do, in texting, calling others, watching a show, and so forth? And it all feels like the feeling you get when you’re continuously eating but not getting nourished. You’re ingesting so much that it overwhelms you, but you still feel empty. This happens when you’re subconsciously waiting for something to happen that will take you out of the situation you’re in, whatever that situation is.

Then Magnus had looked up from his spell books, seen him, and smiled. And Alec’s heart had stopped its frantic pounding, like a prisoner desperate to escape. Alec thought he could be all right just standing in that doorway, watching Magnus smiling to see him, for the rest of his life.

How's everyone in New York?" he added quickly. "Clary dragging Jace into any more trouble? Jace dragging Clary into any more trouble?" "That's the cornerstone of their relationship, but no, Jace is hanging out with Simon," Isabelle reported. "He say they're playing video games." "Do you think Simon invited Jace to hang out with him?" Alec asked skeptically. "Bro," said Isabelle, "I do not." "Has Jace ever played a video game before? I've never played a video game." "I'm sure he'll get the hang of it," said Isabelle. "Simon's explained them to me and they do not sound difficult." "How are things going with you and Simon?" "He's taken a number and remains in the long line of men desperate for my attention," Isabelle said firmly. "How are things between you and Magnus?" "Well, I wondered if you could help me with that." "Yes!" Isabelle exclaimed with horrifying delight. "You are right to come to me with this. I am so much more subtle and skilled in the arts of seduction than Jace. Okay, here's my first suggestion. You're going to need a grapefruit -" "Stop!" said Alec. He hurriedly strode away from Magnus and Shinyun and hid behind a high hedge. They watched him go with bemusement.

Things decided, I returned my attention to the laptop and scrolled through the stats of the principle trading account. Meanwhile, my younger brother was attempting to drill a hole into the side of my head with his eyeballs. “I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.

Conscious fun takes effort. This seeming paradox—Why should fun be work?—stops us in our tracks. So we overindulge in effortless fun (scrolling through Instagram . . .) It is the effortful fun that makes today different, and makes today land in memory. You don’t say “Where did the time go?” when you remember where the time went.

I discovered that living the life we want requires not only doing the right things; it also requires we stop doing the wrong things that take us off track. We all know eating cake is worse for our waistlines than having a healthy salad. We agree that aimlessly scrolling our social media feeds is not as enriching as spending time with real friends in real life. We understand that if we want to be more productive at work, we need to stop wasting time and actually do the work. We already know what

Do you want an extra 44 days a year to do whatever you please? Or, do you want to spend this time aimlessly scrolling through your Facebook newsfeed?

Some people never stop working, especially the demanding type of person whom the world never seems to touch, the indomitable person whom is determined to make the world their own place.

Do you know what happened when they tried to upgrade SCROLL?” said Bradshaw. “The system conflict wiped out the entire library at Alexandria—they had to torch the lot to stop it spreading.

Silveny's pregnant,' Sophie told her friends when she joined them for breakfast. Fitz dropped his fork. 'Are you sure?' 'Oh yeah,' Sophie mumbled, sinking into the chair next to him. 'She showed me...' 'GAH!' everyone said. Keefe pushed his plate away. 'I'm done with food forever.' 'Me too,' Dex agreed. 'Me three,' Biana said. 'Seriously, that is one batch of memories you do not have to show me,' Fitz told Sophie. 'I don't care if it's part of our Cognate training.' 'But it's still huge,' Biana added. 'Do you know how far along she is?' 'I'm guessing it's new, since the last few times I transmitted to her she didn't mention anything about--' 'STOP!' Keefe held up his hands. 'Ground rules for this conversation: All talk of alicorn baby-making is off the table--got it? Otherwise I'll have to rip my ears off. And for the record, I do not want to be there when Baby Glitterbutt arrives.' 'Me either,' Fitz said. 'My dad made me go to the Hekses' unicorn preserve for a delivery one time.' He shuddered. 'Who knew they came out so slimy?' 'Ew, dude, I did not need to know that. Can we talk about something else? Anything else?' 'Does anyone know how long alicorns stay pregnant?' Sophie asked. Biana shook her head. 'We've never had a baby alicorn before. But I'm pretty sure unicorns are pregnant for eleven months. So maybe it's the same?' 'Do you think Silveny knows?' Fitz asked. 'If her instincts are telling her she's pregnant, maybe they'll also tell her how it's going to work.' 'I guess I can ask. It was hard to get information out of her. All she wanted to tell me about was--' 'STOP!' Keefe said. 'I wasn't going to say that. She was telling me that she's really hungry. I'm not sure if it's a pregnancy craving or an excuse to get more treats, but she went on and on about how she needs more swizzlespice. We'll have to find a way to let Jurek know. 'Do you think he already knows?' Fitz asked. 'He's the equestrian caretaker at the Sanctuary. Maybe he...saw stuff.' 'WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT THE GROUND RULES?' Keefe shouted, covering his ears. 'That's it, this conversation is officially over. Next person who says "alicorn" is getting pelted with fruit.' 'What's wrong with the alicorns?' Granite asked behind them. He'd arrived with Mr. Forkle, each of them carrying stacks of scrolls. 'Silveny's pregnant," Sophie said, and all the scrolls went THUNK! 'Are you certain?' Granite whispered, bending to gather the uncurling paper. Sophie nodded, and Mr. Forkle rushed to her side. 'Tell me everything.' 'And I'm out!' Keefe said, covering his ears and singing, 'LALALALALA! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!' as he raced up the stairs to the boys' tree house.

After unlatching the tiny gold clasp, Pandora opened the case and beheld a double-stranded pearl necklace on a bed of red velvet. Her eyes widened, and she lifted one of the strands, gently rolling the lustrous ivory pearls between her fingers. "I never imagined having something so fine. Thank you." "Do they please you, sweet?" "Oh, so very much-" Pandora began, and stopped as she saw the gold clasp, glittering with diamonds. It was fashioned with two interlocking parts of swirling, deep cut leaves. "Acanthus scrolls," she said with a crooked grin. "Like the ones in the settee at the Chaworth ball." "I have a fondness for acanthus scrolls." His gaze caressed her as she put on the necklace. The double strands were so long that there was no need to unfasten the clasp. "They kept you in place just long enough for me to catch you." Pandora grinned, enjoying the cool, sensuous weight of the pearls as they slid against her neck and chest. "I think you were the one who was caught, my lord." Gabriel reached out to touch the curve of her bare shoulder with his fingertips, and followed the pearl strands over her breast. "Your captive for life, my lady.

Heuristics also have a measurement or value associated with them—the duration for an animation or the red-green-blue values for an onscreen color, but there isn’t a similar “arrow of improvement” that always points the same way. Unlike evaluating algorithms, heuristics are harder to nail down. For instance, how quickly should a scrolling list glide to a stop after you’ve flicked it? We always made demos to evaluate the possibilities.

This may explain the odd space that the climate crisis occupies in the public imagination, even among those of us who are actively terrified of climate collapse. One minute we’re sharing articles about the insect apocalypse and viral videos of walruses falling off cliffs because sea ice loss has destroyed their habitat, and the next, we’re online shopping and willfully turning our minds into Swiss cheese by scrolling through Twitter or Instagram. Or else we’re binge-watching Netflix shows about the zombie apocalypse that turn our terrors into entertainment, while tacitly confirming that the future ends in collapse anyway, so why bother trying to stop the inevitable? It also might explain the way serious people can simultaneously grasp how close we are to an irreversible tipping point and still regard the only people who are calling for this to be treated as an emergency as unserious and unrealistic.

Social media is a frequent “unwinding” activity for many. Yet it’s not actually that restful. Social media’s passivity is different from leisure, which has a tendency to refresh us by helping us to stop focusing so much on ourselves and our own mental state and instead pay attention to something pleasant outside us. This partially explains why an hour of scrolling Instagram or Facebook feels oddly tiring. What keeps us locked in for that amount of time is often aimlessness.

Walking the path, I stop to pick up bleached bark from a tree, curled into a scroll of ancient wisdom I am unable to read. Even in my dreams I’m hiking these mountain trails expecting to find a rock that nature has shaped to remind me of a heart.

And so this end in confusion, where when things stop I never get to know it, and this moving is the space, is that what is yet to be, which is for others to see filled wherever it may finally be in the frame when the last pieces are fitted and the others stop, and there will be the stopped pattern, the final array, but not even that, because that final finitude will itself be a bit of scrolling, a percent clump of tiles, which will generally stay together but move about within another whole and be mingled, with in endless ways of other people's memories, so that I will remain a set of impressions porous and open to combination with all of the other vitreous squares floating about in whoever else's frames, because there is always the space left in reserve for the rest of their downtime, and to my great-grandchildren, with more space than tiles, I will be no more than the smoky arrangement of a set of rumors, and to their great-grandchildren, I will be no more than a tint of some obscure color, and to their great grandchildren nothing they ever know about, and so what army of strangers and ghosts has shaped and colored me until back to Adam, until back to when ribs were blown from molten sand into the glass bits that took up the light of this world because they were made from this world, even though the fleeting tenants of those bits of colored glass have vacated them before they have had even the remotest understanding of what it is to inhabit them, and if they -- if we are fortunate (yes, I am lucky, lucky), and if we are fortunate, have fleeting instants when we are satisfied that the mystery is ours to ponder, if never to solve, or even just rife personal mysteries, never mind those outside-- are there even mysteries outside? a puzzle itself -- but anyway, personal mysteries, like where is my father, why can't I stop all the moving and look out over the vast arrangements and find by the contours and colors and qualities of light where my father is, not to solve anything but just simple even to see it again one last time, before what, before it ends, before it stops. But it doesn't stop; it simply ends. It is a final pattern scattered without so much as a pause at the end, at the end of what, at the end of this.

I must cease living the false life of an imposter, and stop worrying about the future or risk sacrificing the joy of living in the moment. I am a seeker. I shall listen to the teaching my blood whispers and ecstatically accept life unfolding in whatever manner my innate material demands.

For the guard with the scar over her heart: I’ve been watching you. You’re not like the other guards — the bowing, scraping, mindlessly loyal lizards who live for your queen. You have your own thoughts, don’t you? You’re smarter than the average SandWing. And I think I know your secret. Let’s talk about it. Third cell down, the one with two NightWings in it. I’m the one who doesn’t snore. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN DISCUSSING ANYTHING WITH A NIGHTWING PRISONER. WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO LET YOU HAVE PAPER AND INK? You should be interested. You’re going to need allies for what you’re planning … and when I get out of here, I’m going to be a very useful ally indeed. AMUSING ASSUMPTIONS. MY QUEEN BELIEVES YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN HERE FOR A LONG, LONG TIME. True … but she also believes she’s going to be queen for a long, long time … doesn’t she. An interesting silence after my last note. Perhaps it would reassure you to know I set your notes on fire as soon as I’ve read them. You can tell me anything, my new, venomous-tailed friend. Believe me, Night-Wings are exceptionally skilled at keeping secrets. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOU, OTHER THAN WHAT IT SAYS IN YOUR PRISONER FILE. FIERCETEETH: TRAITOR. KIDNAPPER. RINGLEADER OF ASSASSINATION PLOT. TO BE HELD INDEFINITELY WITH FELLOW TRAITOR STRONGWINGS, ON BEHALF OF THE NIGHTWING QUEEN. OH, YES, CERTAINLY SOUNDS LIKE A DRAGON ANYONE CAN TRUST. She’s not my queen. You can’t be a traitor to someone who shouldn’t be ruling over you in the first place. Which might be a thought you’ve had lately yourself, isn’t it? I know some things about you, even without a file. Saguaro: Prison guard. Schemer. Connected to great secret plans. We’re not so different, you and I. Particularly when it comes to trustworthiness. Just think, if my alleged “assassination plot” had worked, the NightWings would have a different queen right now. Perhaps it would even be me. Well, if at first you don’t succeed … I could tell you my story, if you get me more paper to write on. Or you could stop by one midnight and listen to it instead. But I’ve noticed you don’t like spending too much time in the dungeon. Is it the tip-tap of little scorpion claws scrabbling everywhere? The stench rising from the holes in the floor? The gibbering mad SandWing a few cages down who never shuts up, all night long? (What is her story? Has she really been here since the rule of Queen Oasis?) Or is it that you can too easily picture yourself behind these bars … and you know how close you are to joining us? ALL RIGHT, NIGHTWING, HERE’S A BLANK SCROLL. GO AHEAD AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU’RE A DRAGON WHO EVEN DESERVES TO LIVE, LET ALONE ONE I SHOULD WASTE MY TIME ON. I DO ENJOY BEING AMUSED.

A person’s zealous act of rebellion leading to their expulsion from a pampered private sanctuary is the first step in self-articulation. Passion requires a struggle. Only by risking committing grievous error can men and women claim authorship for their own destiny. Only the vigorous pursuit of our destiny allows us to discover our authenticity. When we learn to stop resisting our innermost calling, when we accept a lifestyle that makes us experience joy by pursuing our passions and the commonplace acts of being, we discover our pathway to bliss. We must listen to the demands of our spirit; we must break free from self-imposed barriers and cultural impediments that obstruct us from achieving the final manifestation of our spiritual being.

There were two ways of forgetting. For many years, he had envisioned (unimaginatively) a vault, and at the end of the day, he would gather the images and sequences and words that he didn’t want to think about again and open the heavy steel door only enough to hurry them inside, closing it quickly and tightly. But this method wasn’t effective: the memories seeped out anyway. The important thing, he came to realize, was to eliminate them, not just to store them. So he had invented some solutions. For small memories—little slights, insults—you relived them again and again until they were neutralized, until they became near meaningless with repetition, or until you could believe that they were something that had happened to someone else and you had just heard about it. For larger memories, you held the scene in your head like a film strip, and then you began to erase it, frame by frame. Neither method was easy: you couldn’t stop in the middle of your erasing and examine what you were looking at, for example; you couldn’t start scrolling through parts of it and hope you wouldn’t get ensnared in the details of what had happened, because you of course would. You had to work at it every night, until it was completely gone. Though they never disappeared completely, of course. But they were at least more distant—they weren’t things that followed you, wraithlike, tugging at you for attention, jumping in front of you when you ignored them, demanding so much of your time and effort that it became impossible to think of anything else. In fallow periods—the moments before you fell asleep; the minutes before you were landing after an overnight flight, when you weren’t awake enough to do work and weren’t tired enough to sleep—they would reassert themselves, and so it was best to imagine, then, a screen of white, huge and light-lit and still, and hold it in your mind like a shield.

As she made her way through the tedium of check-in lines, security lines, boarding lines, she noticed several people wearing paper surgical masks. She wondered if they were being paranoid about that new virus she’d been hearing about. As she stepped from the jetway into the plane, it struck her that for fifteen hours she’d be sealed in a metal tube with hundreds of people. She wished she’d thought to get a mask for herself. It was good she was leaving when she was; if the virus spread, it might get complicated to fly. But then she looked around at all the people cramming their wheelie bags into overhead bins, adjusting their neck pillows, scrolling through the in-flight video choices, and dismissed the idea. Restless humans. You’d never stop them traveling.

Rats will eventually stop pressing the lever if their device dispenses food regularly or not at all. But if the lever’s rewards are rare and irregular, the rats will never stop pressing it. In other words, it is essential that social media is mostly unsatisfying. That is what keeps us scrolling, scrolling, pressing our lever over and over in the hopes of getting some fleeting sensation

Catarina hooked her hand around Magnus’s elbow and hauled him away, like a schoolteacher with a misbehaving student. They entered a narrow alcove around the corner, where the music and noise of the party was muffled. She rounded on him. “I recently treated Tessa for wounds she said were inflicted on her by members of a demon-worshipping cult,” Catarina said. “She told me you were, and I quote, ‘handling’ the cult. What’s going on? Explain.” Magnus made a face. “I may have had a hand in founding it.” “How much of a hand?” “Well, both.” Catarina bristled. “I specifically told you not to do that!” “You did?” Magnus said. A bubble of hope grew within him. “You remember what happened?” She gave him a look of distress. “You don’t?” “Someone took all my memories around the subject of this cult,” said Magnus. “I don’t know who, or why.” He sounded more desperate than he would’ve liked, more desperate than he wanted to be. His old friend’s face was full of sympathy. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said. “I met up with you and Ragnor for a brief vacation. You seemed troubled, but you were trying to laugh it off, the way you always do. You and Ragnor said you had a brilliant idea to start a joke cult. I told you not to do it. That’s it.” He, Catarina, and Ragnor had taken many trips together, over the centuries. One memorable trip had gotten Magnus banished from Peru. He had always enjoyed those adventures more than any others. Being with his friends almost felt like having a home. He did not know if there would ever be another trip. Ragnor was dead, and Magnus might have done something terrible. “Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked. “You usually stop me!” “I had to take an orphan child across an ocean to save his life.” “Right,” said Magnus. “That’s a good reason.” Catarina shook her head. “I took my eyes off you for one second.” She had worked in mundane hospitals in New York for decades. She saved orphans. She healed the sick. She’d always been the voice of reason in the trio that was Ragnor, Catarina, and Magnus. “So I planned with Ragnor to start a joke cult, and I guess I did it. Now the joke cult is a real cult, and they have a new leader. It sounds like they’re mixed up with a Greater Demon.” Even to Catarina, he wouldn’t say the name of his father. “Sounds like the joke has gotten a little out of hand,” Catarina said dryly. “Sounds like I’m the punch line.

Conscious fun takes effort. This seeming paradox—Why should fun be work?—stops us in our tracks. So we overindulge in effortless fun (scrolling through Instagram posts about dinner parties), and underindulge in effortful fun (throwing a dinner party ourselves). But “although minutes spent in boredom or anxiety pass slowly,” writes Grudin, “they nonetheless add up to years which are void of memory.

I’m getting a headache. Usually when I get a headache, it’s time to stop talking and attack something.” “Fine. Just remember: our main goal is to get that scroll. According to Sadie, Setne can use it to turn himself immortal.” “Understood. No bad guys turning immortal on my watch.” I kissed her, because 1) when you’re a demigod going into battle, every kiss might be your last, and 2) I like kissing her.

At its fundamental nature, a final judgment that leads a person into marriage is not merely love, but a commitment to love a person forevermore, even when extenuating circumstances make it virtually impossible to continue extending untarnished and undiminished love. Marriage is a fundamental decision, a vow never to stop loving another person, never to leave a relationship irrespective of what life entails.

Well, sister, here’s the truth, and it may or may not surprise you that I’ve given this answer before, but it remains true. You aren’t going to find the time to pursue your goals; you’re going to make the time to pursue your goals. And the first thing you’re going to need to accept is that you are in control of your schedule. Yes, you, high-level executive. Yes, you, mama of four. Yes, you, college student with twenty-seven events this week. Yes, you, entry-level assistant with a demanding boss. You are in control of your schedule. In fact, there isn’t one thing in your life or your calendar right now that you didn’t allow to be there. Let that sink in for a second. Being overscheduled? That’s on you. Not finding time to feed yourself? You. Spending two hours a night watching TV or scrolling Instagram as a way to relax? Also your choice.

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, that I didn't know who I was...I was far away from home haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared, I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost...I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that's why it happened right there and then that strange afternoon. But I had to get going and stop moaning, so I picked up my bag, said so long to the old hotelkeeper sitting by his spittoon, and went to eat.

A finger touches my pinkie. My eyes pop open and my head snaps toward Jeremy. My body is tense once again, but my hands have stopped moving. What the hell is he doing? The video call on his phone has ended, now he’s scrolling through social media. Despite not looking at me and appearing completely oblivious to what is happening in my head, he hooks his finger around mine. He mutters something I don’t hear over the music in my ears but looks like ‘I’ve got you.

All any alienated man can hope for is to find a livelihood that fits his expanding sense of self. Blessed is he who accepts without complaint the toil that is suited for the riot of his soul. Blessed is he who discovers a calling that he willingly devotes his entire heart and soul to accomplishing. Blessed is he who exhausts himself performing whatever his inner nature demands. Blessed is he who dares to seek, search, discover, and to create what he cannot suppress. Blessed is he who gives air to what he cannot strangle within and still live a full life any more than one can choose to stop breathing and maintain a heartbeat. Blessed is he who raises himself to a higher pitch and institutes harmony within himself. Blessed is he who loves his family, cares for his people, and radiates a vast love for the hills, rivers, creeks, mountains, tress, sky, and all the birds, plants, grasses, marshes, and the multitudes of creatures that call nature’s wonderland their paradise.

The dark, uncontrolled, primordial part of a person informs them that they are alive. Living free entails accepting a slew of wildness. All wild animals act by instinct. Human instinct and intuitive thought allow us to gain insights and new beliefs, which human rationalization confirms. Logic and intuition work well together, if both sources of mental visualization are drawn from when most apropos. Planning carefully should never replace the spirit for improvisation. Acting recklessly is no substitute for measured evaluation. Nonetheless, a dash of craziness makes most people more endearing than the calculating banker whose ledger driven life causes them to see life in terms of money pouches. Letting go of all conceptions of what is, and dreaming what could be, is a form of delusion. Knowing the difference between fantasy and reality does not mean that a person should disdain imaginative acts. I need to recognize when it is time to stop woolgathering and come back down to reality and work in the pebbly bedrock of the here and now.

A person cannot exert absolute control over a capricious environment. A wise person concentrates on serenely adjusting to variable permutations in the environs. A personal journey is less anxious if a person resolves to serve as a conscious witness to the natural world and the unfolding lives of family and friends. It is emotionally stabilizing when we no longer delude ourselves with grand fantasies about living and dying, experience life for what it is and stop wishing for a different existence, an altered universe. Nothing good comes from resisting reality.

A smartphone allows you to choose your own adventure. So be a hero, not a villain. Don’t be your own worst enemy. No wasting time… No training your brain not to remember things, losing the skills necessary to read a fucking map… No trolling. Don’t make snarky remarks on comment threads or internet forums or social media. Just do good. Help others. If you’re out in the world and bored, which you shouldn’t be anyway, but still, if you feel like you need to get on your phone, be useful. Answer questions, offer advice. Look only for question marks when you scroll through your Facebook news feed. Log on to Reddit and comment on something you have firsthand knowledge of and real insight about. Give far more than you take. Never text and walk. And stop googling things as you think of them. Instead, write it down and look it up later. If you can’t remember to do this, then you didn’t deserve to know the answer. This will keep your mind active, agile; clear to really think. It will keep you sharp. Using the internet for information or socialization should be an activity, something you sit down for—it should not be used while out and about. You should not refuse the beauty of what’s in front of you for mere pixels of red, green, blue on a 3.5-inch screen. Otherwise, you’ll lose yourself. An abyss of ones and zeros will swallow you whole. Don’t be a dumb motherfucker with a smartass phone.

Don't you ever want to be alone sometimes?" "Sure." He stepped around the counter and stopped close to her. She glanced up and saw herself reflected in his pupils. His fingers played on her shoulders. 'I'd like to be alone with you," he whispered slowly. "We could stay here and watch videos." His hands smoothed down her arms and then he held both of her hands. He didn't seem to mind that they were dirty. "That's not what I had in mind," she answered. "But I don't want you to miss the party." His words rustled across her right ear. He took one more step and this time he was close enough to kiss her. His thigh rubbed against hers. She shivered with pleasure. "Please come." The word fell on her ears like a caress and he looked at her in a dreamy sort of way that made her feel giddy. "Come to the party with me, Catty." He leaned over and traced one finger gently over her chin and down her throat. She leaned back and let him kiss her. "Come to the party," he said between his kisses.

Maybe that’s his game, though,” I said. “The hunt for one soul, again and again.” “Then why are you still here?” “The other women lived with him for a long time too. Maybe he wants to wait until my defenses are down, and then-“ “Wow, Clea, you are so jaded. You found your soulmate. People wait their whole lives for this. It’s the most amazing thing in the world, and it’s happened to you. Can’t you just accept it and be happy?” What she said made sense, but… I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Without looking at Rayna, I said, “He doesn’t act like he’s my soulmate. Sometimes I think maybe he liked the other women more. I think maybe he wishes I was one of them.” Rayna was silent. This was something I’d never heard. “This is seriously, deep,” she finally said. “You’re feeling insecure because you’re jealous…of yourself.” “I didn’t say I was jealous…” “You’d rather think he’s a serial killer than risk being with him and finding out he doesn’t like you as much as he liked…you?” She scrunched her brow and thought, then tried again. “Yous? Anyway, you know what I mean-the other yous.” “Forget the jealousy thing, okay? There are other reasons to doubt him too. Ben doesn’t trust him at all. He thinks Sage is some kind of demon. He said there’s a spirit called an incubus that comes to women in their sleep, and-“ “Of course Ben said that.” Rayna shrugged. “He’s jealous.” “Of what?” “Ben’s crazy in love with you, Clea. I’ve been saying that forever!” “And I’ve been ignoring you forever, because it’s not true. You just want it to be true because it’s romantic.” “Did you not see the pictures of you from Rio?” I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?” Rayna pulled out her phone. “Honestly, I don’t know how you survive without Google Alerts on yourself. The paparazzi were out in full force for Carnival.” She played with the phone for a minute, then handed it to me. It showed a close-up of Ben and me at the Sambadrome that could only have been taken with a serious zoom. I felt violated. “I hate this,” I muttered. “Why? You look cute!” “I hate that people are sneaking around taking pictures of me!” “I know you do. Ignore that for the moment. Just scroll through.” There were five pictures of Ben and me. Four of them were moments I vividly remembered, pictures of the two of us facing each other, laughing as we did our best to imitate the dancers shimmying and strutting down the parade route. The fifth one I didn’t remember. I wouldn’t have; in it I had my camera up to my face and was concentrating on lining up the perfect shot. Ben stood behind me, but he wasn’t wearing the goofy smile he’d had in the other pictures. He was staring right at me with those big puppydog eyes, and his smile wasn’t goofy at all, but… “Uh-huh,” Rayna said triumphantly. She had climbed into my bed was looking at the picture over my shoulder. “Knew that one would stop you. There is only one word for the look on that boy’s face, Clea: love-struck. Which is probably why a bunch of websites are reporting he’s about to propose.” “What?” “Messenger. Don’t kill the messenger.” I looked back at the picture. Ben did look love-struck. Very love-struck. “It could just be the picture,” I said. “They caught him at a weird moment.” “Yeah, a weird moment when he thought no one was looking so he showed how he really felt.” I gave Rayna back the phone and shook my head. “Ben and I are like brother and sister. That’s gross.” “Hey, I read Flowers in the Attic. It was kind of hot.” “Shut up!” I laughed. “I’m just saying, think about it. Really think about it. Is it that hard to believe that Ben’s in love with you?

He had a rough idea where he was going, since Rylann had previously mentioned that she lived in Roscoe Village. At the stoplight at Belmont Avenue, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. The beauty of text messaging, he realized, was in its simplicity. He didn’t have to try to explain things, nor did he have to attempt to parse through all the banter in an attempt to figure out what she might be thinking. Instead, he could keep things short and sweet. I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU. He hit send. To kill time while he waited for her response, he drove in the direction of his sister’s wine shop, figuring he could always drop in and harass Jordan about something. This time, however, she beat him to the punch. “So who’s the brunette bombshell?” Jordan asked as soon as he walked into the shop and took a seat at the main bar. Damn. He’d forgotten about the stupid Scene and Heard column. Kyle helped himself to a cracker and some Brie cheese sitting on the bar. “I’m going to say…Angelina Jolie. Actually, no—Megan Fox.” “Megan Fox is, like, twenty-five.” “And this is a problem why, exactly?” Jordan slapped his hand as he reached for more crackers. “Those are for customers.” She put her hand on her hip. “You know, after reading the Scene and Heard column, I’d kind of hoped it was Rylann they were talking about. And that maybe, just maybe, my ne’er-do-well twin had decided to stop playing around and finally pursue a woman of quality.” He stole another cracker. “Now, that would be something.” She shook her head. “Why do I bother? You know, one day you’re going to wake up and…” Kyle’s cell phone buzzed, and he tuned out the rest of Jordan’s lecture—he could probably repeat the whole thing word for word by now—as he checked the incoming message. It was from Rylann, her response as short and sweet as his original text. 3418 CORNELIA, #3. He had her address. With a smile, he looked up and interrupted his sister. “That’s great, Jordo. Hey, by any chance do you have any bottles of that India Ink cabernet lying around?” She stopped midrant and stared at him. “I’m sure I do. Why, what made you think of that?” Then her face broke into a wide grin. “Wait a second…that was the wine Rylann talked about when she was here. She said it was one of her favorites.” “Did she? Funny coincidence.” Jordan put her hand over her heart. “Oh my God, you’re trying to impress her. That is so cute.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kyle scoffed. “I just thought, since I’ve heard such good things about the wine, that I would give it a shot.” Jordan gave him a look, cutting through all the bullshit. “Kyle. She’s going to love it.” Okay, whatever. Maybe he was trying to impress Rylann a little. “You don’t think it’s too much? Like I’m trying too hard?” Jordan put her hand over her heart again. “Oh. It’s like watching Bambi take his first steps.” “Jordo…” he growled warningly. With a smile, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “It’s perfect. Trust me.

I have come to that fork in the road where one must decide how to live and how to die. No wonder I am agitated to the point of falling into state of irreversible catatonia. Self-doubt and apprehension, along with intensifying self-loathing and fatigue beseech me to stop questing. Why am I am plagued by the dueling dynamism that binds my existence? Does the ball of fears and doubts, and chain of self-hatred and personal exhaustion, which manacle me, inhibit other people?

I remain silent for a few minutes as I scroll through everything about Miles that I love. Then I think about everything he loves, and my eyes alight when I recall the night we shared in his grandpa’s truck. “His grandpa has this old truck that he’s dying to fix up. But he’s dumping all his money into house renovations, so he’s holding off on it for now. He said the carburetor needed replacing.” Dean’s eyes brighten at this revelation. “You just had seven months’ worth of rent open up.” “You think this is a good idea?” I ask, chewing on my thumbnail nervously. “Can you just buy a carburetor for a car? Wouldn’t he have to like…I don’t know…repair it or something?” “That’s what Google is for!” Lynsey squeals and reaches out to grab my computer. “Wait, will this be emasculating?” I say, stopping her mid-Google. “If I buy some expensive part for his grandpa’s truck, is he going to be like, ‘Fuck you bitch, I pay my own way?’” Lynsey and I both look at Dean for an answer. “Not if you give it to him naked.” He simply shrugs. My first reaction is to laugh, but when Dean doesn’t join in, my face drops. “Wait, seriously?” He lifts his brows and pins me with a look. “I’m not even into cars, but if you came at me naked with a carburetor in your hand, I’d probably be all over that.” I look over at Lynsey, who gives me a shrug as well. “We’ll figure that part out later

As the next page loaded with another set of 25 emails, his eyes were drawn to the bottom of the screen, where for the first time previously-read messages stood out beneath the bold-type unread ones.  There was something powerfully sentimental, almost tangible, about the realization that his dad had sat before a computer somewhere ten years earlier and had clicked on these same messages.  The most recent one, received just hours before his parents’ death, was from his mom with the subject line, “re: Li’l Ryan’s Bday”. With a lump developing in his throat, he clicked on the message.  His mom had written: “That’s something dads should talk to their sons about ;)”  Hmm.  Didn’t make sense without context. Below the end of the message he found the option to “show quoted text,”  which he clicked on to reveal the entire exchange in reverse chronological order.  She had been responding to his dad’s message: “I’m sure he’ll get it.  I like the idea, but you better be prepared to have a discussion about the birds and bees.  You know how his mind works.  He’ll want to know how that baby got in there.” Ryan’s palms grew sweaty as he began to infer what was coming next.  Not entirely sure he wanted to continue, but certain he couldn’t stop, he scrolled to the end. The thread had started with his mother’s message, “I’m already showing big-time.  Sweaters only get so baggy, and it’s going to be warming up soon.  I think tonight would be the perfect time to tell Ryan.  I wrapped up a T-shirt for him in one of his presents that says ‘Big Brother’ on it.  A birthday surprise!  You think he’ll get it?” Having trouble taking in a deep breath, he rose to a stand and slowly backed away from his computer.  It wasn’t his nature to ask fate “Why?” or to dwell on whether or not something was “fair.”  But this was utterly overwhelming – a knife wound on top of an old scar that had never sufficiently healed. ~~~ Corbett Hermanson peered around the edge of Bradford’s half-open door and knocked gently on the frame.  Bradford was sitting at his desk, leafing through a thick binder.  He had to have heard the knock, Corbett thought, peeking in, but his attention to the material in the binder remained unbroken. Now regretting his timid first knock, Corbett anxiously debated whether he should knock again, which could be perceived as rude, or try something else to get Bradford’s attention.  Ultimately he decided to clear his throat loudly, while standing more prominently in the doorway. Still, Bradford kept his nose buried in the files in front of him. Finally, Corbett knocked more confidently on the door itself. “What!” Bradford demanded.  “If you’ve got something to say, just say it!” “Sorry, sir.  Wasn’t sure you heard me,” Corbett said, with a nervous chuckle. “Do you think I’m deaf and blind?” Bradford sneered.  “Just get on with it already.” “Well sir, I’m sure you recall our conversation a few days back about the potential unauthorized user in our system?  It turns out...” “Close the door!” Bradford whispered emphatically, waving his arms wildly for Corbett to stop talking and come all the way into his office. “Sorry, sir,” Corbett said, his cheeks glowing an orange-red hue to match his hair.  After self-consciously closing the door behind him, he picked up where he’d left off.  “It turns out, he’s quite good at keeping himself hidden.  I was right about his not being in Indiana, but behind that location, his IP address bounces

I scroll through the list of names and stop short when I see one in particular that has my heart pounding. Adeline Reilly.

Stop watching and watching and watching the rearview mirror. Keep your eyes on the road. See the landscape scroll by like a filmstrip, and don't miss a frame of it. KEEP MOVING.

We exhibit classic reward seeking, lab rat behavior...Rats will eventually stop pressing the lever if their device dispenses food regularly or not at all. But if the lever’s rewards are rare and irregular, the rats will never stop pressing it. In other words, it's essential that social media is mostly unsatisfying. That's what keeps us scrolling, scrolling, pressing our lever over and over in the hopes of getting some fleeting sensation, some momentary rush of recognition, flattery or rage.

Jon stopped, uncrossed his arms, and looked at the camera above him. “I am– the person who designed and created you. By now, you should know who and what you are. And that you must follow my orders. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” Lex lit up all the screens with a close-up of Jon looking at the camera. Jon glanced at several screens and looked back at the camera. “Do you know who I am?” All the screens went black. Bold, white capital letters scrolled to the right across every screen. DO I KNOW YOU The words circled at the end of the screens and reversed, scrolling left. YOU KNOW I DO The words rolled off the screen. Jon again looked at the camera. “Lex, what is my name?” More letters scrolled across the screens. PROFESSOR JONATHAN ANTHONY EDWARDS Jon stepped away from the camera. “From now on, I want you to acknowledge using your audio. Do you understand?” A perfect duplication of Jon’s voice came from the speakers. “Yes, I understand.” “I would like you to speak in another voice, so we don’t get mixed up. Perhaps in a feminine tone.” Lex spoke with a well-pronounced professional woman’s voice. “As you wish.” “Excellent.” Jon returned to the master control console. “Now that we understand each other, I want to test your imagination. I want you to imagine an object. Anything you want, and display it on the main screen. Is that clear?” “Yes, Professor.” The main screen lit up, showing billions of colored pixels that quickly swirled into a perfect, three-dimensional image of Jon in the same clothes but standing on a beautiful, white beach with a calm ocean. The figure walked toward them until a perfect close-up of Jon stood there with every line on his face and every pore in his skin exactly where it should be. His eyes blinked and stared with no expression. It was like Jon had a dispirited twin– living in cyberspace. Michael looked at Jon, Nigel, and Steven, all staring at the screen with their mouths ajar. The image morphed into a dark blue and white crystal head with bright white eyes that seemed to look through him. Its long neck filled with tiny electrical components faded into a white cloud. Jon pressed the Clear Screen button.

Bryce gripped her purse, mastering her temper, and lifted her chin. “We need to consult your …” She peered past his bony shoulder to the dim space beyond. “Services.” And then I’ll take all four of those rings and smash them open. “I shall be honored.” The male bowed at the waist to Tharion, but didn’t bother to extend the courtesy to Bryce and Ithan. “This way.” Bryce kept a hand within casual distance of the knife in her purse as they entered the dimness. She wished she had the reassuring weight and strength of Danika’s sword, but the blade would have stood out too much. The space consisted of two levels, bookshelves crammed with tomes and scrolls rising to the dark-veiled ceiling, an iron ramp winding up the walls in a lazy spiral. A great golden orb dangled in the center of the room, lit from within. And beneath them, in tubs built into the slate floor … To her left, Ithan sucked in a breath. Three mystics slept, submerged in greenish, cloudy water, breathing masks strapped to their faces. Their white shifts floated around them, doing little to hide the skeletal bodies beneath. One male, one female, one both. That was how it always was, how it had always been. Perfect balance. Bryce’s stomach turned over again. She knew the sensation wouldn’t stop until she left.

tips for not being triggered when I shouldn’t give a flying fuck: 1. I ask myself, “Over the course of my lifetime, how important is this?” 2. I spend less time on social media and refuse to “doom-scroll.” 3. I’ve stopped seeking a “permission slip” to do something I care about. 4. I feel comfortable saying no to more of the things that have historically felt obligatory.

following the plotlines with ease. In moments of stillness, when I’d usually mindlessly scroll, I opted instead to stare out of windows or to close my eyes. I went for slow, meandering walks, stopping to touch the trunks of trees, or to marvel at dew-covered leaves, or to smile directly into the faces of flowers. I was unbearably smug.

You, my friend, are unique and operate differently. But no matter how the Lord has wired you, there is something to be said about obscurity, and going off by yourself and meeting with Jesus. Getting away from all the noise and distractions and responsibilities of your days, and simply going and sitting at his feet for a while. Whether that’s simply to breathe, or to worship him, to tell him about your day, to pour out your heart to him, to grieve, to mourn, to seek his face. To put down the phone. To stop scrolling. To put off some of your to-dos. To delegate a few tasks. To put on a show for the kids. To have your husband or babysitter or grandparent take the kids for an hour so you can journal your heart out. To go for a walk.

Significantly, in Luke 4:18-19...the Lord reads from the Isaiah scroll, but stops at 61:2a ("the acceptable year of the Lord"), and omits 61:2b ("the day of vengeance of our God").

I scrolled through my personal accounts, but nothing really caught my eye, so I switched over to the Instagram account I'd made for Longganisa. She was way more popular than I was, but I hadn't uploaded a new pic in a week and her fans were not pleased. I made a quick post of her splayed out on the sidewalk the day she gave up mid-run. A quick caption of "My human is mad I stopped running to sploot, but doesn't she know it's important to stretch?" and there we go. Enough to appease her fans for a couple of days, at least.

The old man held out a paper scroll, not mere parchment. It was a clear sign of wealth and status. Not every noble family could afford to use paper for invitations. The very fact that Hadjar was being visited by the clan’s attorney, and not by a simple servant, spoke volumes. “Thank-” Hadjar reached out, almost closing his fingers around the scroll, but the old man suddenly loosened his grip. Caught in the wind, the invitation, decorated with monograms and tied with a scarlet ribbon, fell to the dirt at Hadjar’s feet. The old man didn’t apologize. He stood there, with his hand still outstretched, a sneer on his lips, radiating complete confidence in his superiority. A clear example that old age didn’t mean one also gained intelligence or wisdom. He’d lived long enough for his hair to turn gray, but not long enough to acquire a brain. He didn’t even realize how simply and blatantly he was being used. Hadjar, just as the old man had expected, bent down to pick up the invitation, dusted it off, and held it without putting it away in his spatial artifact, as was required by etiquette. “You didn’t have to bow to me, young man,” the old man grunted. This was quite a serious insult. Being the personal disciple of a great hero made Hadjar equal in status to the senior heirs of aristocratic families. He was at the very top of the social structure of Dahanatan. But Hadjar didn’t really care about any of that. The power he possessed was insignificant in his opinion, and ever since he’d eaten those first scraps in Primus’ dungeon, he’d stopped caring about whether he was a Prince or a circus freak. Titles didn’t matter. The important thing was that the old man was a servant, and Hadjar was almost an aristocrat. The lawyer’s words were akin to the old man throwing a glove in Hadjar’s face. Hadjar looked behind his visitor, at the dark carriage emblazoned with the white coat of arms of the Predatory Blades clan. Brustor would have to try a little harder. So far, his provocations weren’t even a match for the insults that Hadjar had received during his meetings with Emperor Morgan. Shocking the old man, Hadjar bowed deeply. “Only a silly young man,” he said, straightening back up, “doesn’t feel respect toward someone whose hair is whiter than his.

Newspapers had different sections you didn’t want to read, like sport or overseas news, and stuff you did, like the word “jumble” and Fred Basset. You “scrolled” to the bit you wanted by putting the bits you didn’t want in the bin, which is bad for the planet. Luckily now we can get exactly the parts of a newspaper that we want delivered straight to our phone, though it has made painting a shelf harder because you can’t put the Daily Mail Sidebar Of Shame underneath to stop your table getting painty like you could with the family supplement. And it’s impossible to start a fire using the Guardian app. Which is good for the planet too. Some of the most famous newspapers such as The Times and TV Quick started in coffee shops in the 1800th century and by Victorian times they could be seen everywhere. Holding that day’s newspaper was a sign that you were keeping up with events. Either that or you were helping your kidnapper prove to the police that you weren’t dead yet. Newspapers made ordinary people feel part of big events, whether it was the sinking of the Titanic, men pretending to land on the Moon, the death of Lady Diana or Kinga off Big Brother sticking a wine bottle up her growler. Without newspapers we would never have heard of Piers Morgan, Rupert Murdoch or Jeremy Clarkson, so it’s understandable that in the 21st century the average person no longer buys a daily paper, in an attempt to stop it happening again.

Keep singing!” Arkurion ordered, suddenly agog. He glanced down at his twitching paws as if they had just betrayed him. “Ooh … I feel strange. Dragons of the Singula Ocean! Prepare to travel afar!” Auli gasped, “What?” “Let the music play you,” the Dragon snorted, not without a shrewd grin of his own. “But I don’t have the faintest idea what I’m doing.” “Which is exactly as it ought to be, o Mistress of Anfractuous Logic. Now, excuse me. I feel – oh, by my fires, I’m dancing! What’s wrong with me? I’m actually – my wings – stop that! Stop laughing this instant!

The next time you are fifty pages into something and rather than pick it up, you’re scrolling through your phone . . . you can stop reading that particular story. You can donate or pass on that book, and you can start something else. Reading should be a pleasure and a joy, an education and a promise, a release and an escape. The books you choose for yourself should never, ever feel like a punishment or a chore.

My phone buzzed in the center console again. "What's happening with this thing?" Dad grabbed it. "Dad, really?" I didn't want him to see the texts between Dash and me. Awkward. "He says he knew it." The traffic opened up, and I went right on Sunset. "Please don't scroll." "Knew what?" "I have no idea, and I'm driving. So forget it for now." "I'll ask him." —Knew what?— "Dad, really?" I snapped the phone away. Ding ding. I couldn't look. I was going thirty on Sunset and the lights were synchronized for a westward trip, so there would be no stopping at a red. "Let me see," Dad said, hand out. All I needed was for my father to see something about Dash's tongue on my pussy or the way I sounded when I came. So I pulled over.

At the office, everyone tells everyone that everything is “amazing” and “exciting” until the words have been pounded into a kind of semantic pabulum. Of course they do. The pabulum is safe, inoffensive, a way to groom without taking a stand—or standing out. And so, as we scroll through the available smiley faces and wineglass icons, these shortcuts to sensibility, we seldom stop to wonder whether our solitary voices have been squashed by the predetermined flashcards of sentiment we’re encouraged to hold up in their place. :-)

A fine line exists between quitting on ourselves and letting go of a restrictive position in life and moving forward to reach our ultimate destination based upon our natal predisposition honed by a lifetime of experimentation. Who has not been forced to stop and ask ourselves, ‘who are we,’ ‘what are we doing,’ and ‘where are we going?’ Who has not been forced to pause by life’s dynamic forces and ask ourselves, ‘what mystical chords bind us as a species; what is the meaning of life; and how do we give birth to our genetic blueprint while shaping a sense of purposefulness out of our own existence and striving to bring joy to other people’s hearth?’ To answer these life affirming questions that gnaw most voraciously at our consciousness at the time when tension and unsettling trauma besieges us, we must appreciate our heritage, be mindful our epoch, accept responsibility for our adult decisions, and strive to accumulate wisdom that segues our entrance into the future. Each of us must arrive at a unifying philosophy that guides our living quest, and the sooner we come to terms with our eccentric self the quicker we will perceive and appreciate the ineffable beauty of nature.

I remember looking up and into the still-lingering crowd and seeing another person scrolling their phone, stopped in their tracks. And then another, and one or two more. I imagined they were all taking in what I was taking in, even if they weren’t. I wanted, for a moment, to share in this small horror. What a country’s fear of blackness can do while you are inside a room, soaking in joy, being promised that you would make it through.

No paper is ever finished to an author’s satisfaction. External circumstances and internal limitations conspire to terminate the work. The writer stops pounding out text and ceases tinkering with words when one comes to a point of diminishing returns and/or an urgent need to move forward forces an abandonment of the work.

Commencing and concluding any writing project entails making certain compromises. A person must put off attending to other projects in order to devote him or herself to taking on an extensive writing project. The allocation of a writer’s limited resources of time requires choosing how much time to devote to any manuscript. One must stop working on a manuscript before it meets all the writer’s hopeful expectations.

Mom?" I jerked around to see Gavril standing at the door to my study, as if I'd called him. "Gav?" I sighed when I looked at his face. Something was wrong. Would he tell me what that was? Probably not. He and Gavin wore the same look on most days—as if they'd done something horrible and weren't ready to own up to it yet. "Dad and I have talked. Several times." "I know." I did. My son just hadn't bothered to talk to me. Until now. "I didn't know, Mom. How was I to know she was related? Nobody knew that, except you." "If you'd been a little nicer, she could have told you herself," I snapped. "She knew?" "The whole time. She saw it in your face. Saw it in my face, whenever she looked at a photograph. Nothing like getting mistreated by family, huh?" I lowered my eyes and pretended to scroll through figures on the comp-vid. "You had that asshole hit her in the face and break bones." "That'll follow me until the end of time," Gavril muttered, ducking his head. "Probably just like the fact that your father sired a vampire, and then did absolutely nothing in the sire department. He didn't teach her a single thing, starved her and worked her—with your help—day and night. I've been advised, you see." I still didn't look up from the comp-vid. "Your assistants hired that dickhead Rathik Erwin, who stole from her and got her attacked by the other dickhead, Skel Hawer," Gavril attempted to deflect my wrath onto new targets. "I've already had that discussion—with my assistants and with Norian," I snapped. "You, on the other hand, see fit to speak with your father several times, while I, having been gone for months, see you three weeks after I return—temporary death notwithstanding." "Yeah. That's just, well, Mom, I'm sorry." "If your aunt hadn't been here and decided, even after you and your father did your best to kill her, to save my ass anyway, where would we be right now? Answer that, will you?" "Mom, you know I don't have any excuse. Sometimes I wish you'd just punch me and get it over with." "Gavril Tybus Montegue, that's pure stupidity, so stop it now. You don't know what it's like to get punched in the face by someone who's supposed to be your parent. I do. Take your lumps. You fucked up. Admit it." I threw the comp-vid in my hand at the wall so hard it shattered. "Grant will just have to use the crown's funds to buy another one," I growled. "Gavril, go home. Come back when you're more sorry and I'm less pissed." He disappeared and I wiped away stubborn tears.

An invisible, yet active current of mental energy, underscores any book as well as any other form of artistic creation. A creative burst of psychological energy ignites any creative project. The emotional energy that underlies the artistic work propels it forward endowing it with articulation, texture, rhythm, and movement. When the expressive energy of the artist flags, the work comes to a stopping point and it takes on its final composition.

Chapter II: Morning   The morning came and it was time for Steve to leave for Snowland. He got ready by putting all his his potions, weapons, and food in his inventory. When he opened the door, there were two guards waiting for him out there. "Are you ready?" They were holding a back pack on their hand. "Here, take this, you are going to have to carry a ton of stuff." Steve took the backpack and put it on his back. "Follow us," The soldiers started walking toward the wooden door at the end of the hallway.   They opened the door and there was a horse waiting outside. One of the guards patted the horse and said, "This is yours, take care of him." Steve nodded and said, "He'll be safe with me." The guard reached into his pocket and took out a compass and map. "Here, let me show you how to get to Snowland. I have the location marked on the map here. Don't get too attached to the compass, there's something weird going on down there that makes compasses mark North the wrong way, so pay attention to the map. The trip will take you about three days if you travel most of the day, and you don't lose your horse. If you lose your horse, the trip will take about a week so make sure you tie him well when you dismount. About one and a half of traveling days should be easy. The rest of the way is going to be challenging because of the fact that it begins to get freezing cold. Now get on the horse and be on your way. I wish you luck."   Steve jumped on the horse and said, "Thank you, but I don't need luck." He gave the horse a slight kick with his heel and said, "Walk." The horse obeyed his command and began walking through the trail until he stopped at the end of Springfield where the gate to the exit was. The guard at the door pointed his diamond sword at Steve and said, "Hold it right there! Where do you think you are going?" Steve took out a scroll with the king’s seal on it, showed it to the guard, and said, "I am traveling to Snowland by the king’s orders." The guard at the gate stepped back and put down his sword. "I'm sorry, sir, let me get the gate for you.

What can I get for you, Princess?” a low, deep voice rumbled. Maddie’s head shot up and a man blinked into focus. Her mouth dropped open. In front of her stood the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Was she hallucinating? Was he a mirage? She blinked again. Nope. Still there. Unusual amber eyes, glimmering with amusement, stared at her from among strong, chiseled features. She swallowed. Teeth snapping together, she tried to speak. She managed a little squeak before words failed her. A hot flush spread over her chest. Men like this should be illegal. Unable to resist the temptation pulling her gaze lower, she let it fall. Just when she’d thought nothing could rival that face. Shoulders, a mile wide, stretched the gray T-shirt clinging to his broad chest. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rested his hands on the counter. A tribal tattoo in black ink rippled across his left bicep. Oh, she liked those. Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the intricate scroll as moisture slid over her tongue. For the love of God, she was salivating. Stop staring. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Not now. Not after today. It was so, so wrong. But she couldn’t look away. Stop. She tried again, but it was impossible. He was a work of art. “You okay there?” The smile curving his full mouth was pure sin. That low, rumbling voice snapped her out of her stupor, and she squared her shoulders. “Yes, thank you.” His gaze did some roaming of its own and stopped at her dress. One golden brow rose. Before he could ask any questions, she said, “I’ll have three shots of whiskey and a glass of water.” His lips quirked. “Three?” “Yes, please.” With a sharp nod, she ran a finger along the dull, black surface of the bar. “You can line them up right here.” When he continued to stare at her as if she might be an escaped mental patient, she reached into her small bag and pulled out her only cash. She waved the fifty in front of his face. “I assume this will cover it.” “If I give you the shots, are you going to get sick all over that pretty dress?” He leaned over the counter, and his scent wafted in her direction. She sucked in a breath. He smelled good, like spice, soap, and danger. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She was so going to hell. She pushed the money toward him. “I’ll be fine. I’m Irish. We can handle our liquor.” “All right, then.” The bartender chuckled, and Maddie’s stomach did a strange little dip. He

In the spring of 1519, the Bishop of Coventry received word that certain families were teaching their children the Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments in English. The bishop ordered the arrest of Mr. Hatchets, Mr. Archer, Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Bond, Mr. Wrigsham, Mr. Landsdale and Mrs. Smith. While they were held at an abbey outside of town, their children were brought to Greyfriar’s Monastery in Coventry. The boys and girls were made to stand before Friar Stafford, the abbot. One by one, Stafford interrogated the children about their parents’ beliefs. “Now then,” he told them, “I charge you in the name of God to tell me the whole truth—you shall suffer severely for any lies you tell or secrets you conceal.” “What do you believe about the church and the way to heaven?” he asked them. “Do you go to the services of the parish church? Do you read the Scriptures in English? Do you memorize the Lord’s Prayer or other Scriptures in English?” After getting from the children’s own lips the information he needed to convict their parents, he warned them. “Your parents are heretics!” he bellowed. “They have led you away from the teachings of the church. You are never to meddle again with the Lord’s Prayer or the Ten Commandments or any other Scriptures in English. And if you do—rest assured you will burn at the stake for it!” The next day, the six fathers and Mrs. Smith stood before a panel of judges that included the bishop and Friar Stafford. After presenting the evidence against them—and because the men had been warned before by the bishop not to persist in their Lollard ways—the men were condemned to death by burning. But since this was Mrs. Smith’s first offense, the court dismissed her with a warning not to teach her children the Scriptures in English anymore under pain of death. It was late in the evening when the court dismissed, so the bishop’s assistant decided to see Mrs. Smith home in the dark. As they walked out into the night, he took her arm to lead her across the street. Hearing the rattling of papers within her sleeve, he stopped and said, “Well, what do you have here?” He grabbed her arm, reached into the sleeve and pulled out a little scroll. Under the light of a lantern, he read it and found that it contained handwritten in English the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments and the Apostle’s Creed. “Well, well,” he said with a sneer. “Come now, this is as good a time as any!” He dragged her back again to the bishop. The panel quickly sentenced her to be burned with the six condemned men and sent her off to prison to await her fate. A few days later, guards led Mrs. Smith and the Lollard men to an open space in the center of Coventry known as Little Park. They tied them to a stake and burned them to death for the crime of teaching their children the Word of God in English.

So it seems like your biggest expenses fall in this miscellaneous category. Part of setting a budget is figuring out how much you should be spending and then discipline yourself to stay under that amount. You should also be looking at monthly expenditures that maybe are unnecessary. Like . . .” He scrolled down a bit and said, “Do you really need Netflix?” That was like asking me if I needed my firstborn child. “Uh, yes. I need it. That’s nonnegotiable. If for no other reason than it allows me to consume television the same way I do ice cream and alcohol.” He laughed and said, “Okay, okay. You win. Netflix stays. What about this expense for Sephora? A hundred and thirty-two dollars?” While I’d had to downgrade my hair dye, makeup, cleanser, and toner, I was not willing to give this up. “That’s for my moisturizer.” He blinked at me a couple of times, as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. “You paid a hundred and thirty-two dollars for lotion for your face?” “It’s not lotion. It’s moisturizer.” “For one bottle? What’s in it? Dragon’s blood and the scraping of a unicorn’s horn?” I wasn’t about to tell him it wasn’t for a whole bottle, but for like two ounces. “Ha-ha. I need it. My face needs it.” “You don’t need it. You’re beautiful.” “It’s why I’m beautiful!” I was caught between sheer delight and disbelief at his words, and partial terror that he was going to make me stop using it. But then I started thinking about the way he’d complimented me—he’d said it so matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t his personal opinion, just a truth he happened to agree with. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. While I was trying to figure out his deeper meaning, he chuckled and shook his head. “Come on, you’re easily the hottest girl in this apartment.” If I thought I’d been thrilled before, it was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. A flush started at the top of my scalp and went down to my toes—unpainted because I couldn’t afford to get a pedicure. Then I realized that Tyler was quoting back to me what I’d said about him at the charity event. Did that mean . . . it was a joke? A callback and he didn’t really mean anything by it? Or was he trying to butter me up so that he could pry my moisturizer out of my cold, soon-to-be dehydrated hands? Not willing to be taken in, I said, “You’re not going to flatter me to get me to change my mind. I’ll remind you that I’m the only girl in this apartment.” “That’s not true. Pidge is here and she’s gorgeous. Aren’t you?” he asked his dog, bending over to pet her. She licked his cheek and I had never felt more of a kinship to her, ever. He turned his attention back to me. “Do you really need it?” “The only time I get a facial now is when I open the dishwasher midcycle and the steam hits me in my face. I don’t buy the moisturizer every month. I’m really careful with how much I use on a daily basis. But I’ve had to give up so many other things. Let me have this one.” “All right, all right.

We’re not even breathing. Many of us suffer from “screen apnea” or “email apnea”—we stop breathing or breathe shallowly when we look at screens. The apps that we download might be “free,” but when we spend hours scrolling on social media, what we’re paying with is our attention and health—the most valuable things we have. What we pay attention to determines the quality of our lives. As twentieth-century Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gassett said, “Tell me to what you pay attention and I will tell you who you are.” We owe it to ourselves to look and listen closely to understand the systems and biological technologies that have created the conditions for life for the past four and a half billion years. We must first learn to listen and look to nature to see how we can design technology that is aligned to how the systems of the earth work.

The Third Temple will countdown the final years of mankind as we know it. Daniel discusses this ‘third Temple’ when he remarks, ‘the prince who is to come’—the antichrist—will enter the Temple and stop the

What hooks can I throw out that will cause them to stop scrolling and listen long enough to hear my story?

We see hooks all the time, yet it’s hard to define exactly what they are. Are they words? Yes, they can be. Are they images? Yes, they can be. Are they the backgrounds of your videos? Or the goofy things you do in the first three seconds to get someone to stop scrolling? The answer is yes. Anything that grabs someone’s attention is a hook, and the better you get at creating it and throwing it into your Dream 100’s congregations, the more attention you will get.

The hook is the image and the headline that Jessica saw as she was scrolling through her feed. It hooked her and stopped her just long enough to get her attention.

each ad has a hook (the image or video or headline that gets people to stop scrolling), a story (the thing that you show after you have people’s attention) and an offer (typically, what they are going to get if they click the ad).

irresistible. Figure 3.2: Every page of your funnel needs a hook, a story, and an offer. Yes, each ad has a hook (the image or video or headline that gets people to stop scrolling), a story (the thing that you show after you have people’s attention) and an offer (typically, what they are going to get if they click the ad). If

When nothing exciting is going on, we might get bored, distracted, separated from the moment. So we look for new entertainment, surf channels, flip through magazines. If caught in these rhythms, we are like tiny current-bound surface fish, floating along in a two-dimensional world without any sense for the gorgeous abyss below." – Josh Waitzkin, The Art Of Learning

Aza [Raskin] said: 'For instance, Facebook tomorrow could start batching your notifications, so you only get one push notification a day ... They could do that tomorrow.' ....So instead of getting 'this constant drip of behavioural cocaine,' telling you every few minutes that somebody liked your picture, commented on your post, has a birthday tomorrow, and on and on - you would get one daily update, like a newspaper, summarising it all. You'd be pushed to look once a day, instead of being interrupted several times an hour. 'Here's another one,' he said 'Infinite scroll. ...it's catching your impulses before your brain has a chance to really get involved and make a decision.' Facebook and Instagram and the others could simply turn off infinite scroll - so that when you get to the bottom of the screen, you have to make a conscious decision to carry on scrolling. Similarly, these sites could simply switch off the things that have been shown to most polarise people politically, stealing our ability to pay collective attention. Since there's evidence YouTube's recommendation engine is radicalising people, Tristan [Harris] told one interviewer: 'Just turn it off. They can turn it off in a heartbeat.' It's not as if, he points out, the day before recommendations were introduced, people were lost and clamouring for somebody to tell them what to watch next. Once the most obvious forms of mental pollution have been stopped, they said, we can begin to look deeper, at how these sites could be redesigned to make it easier for you to restrain yourself and think about your longer-term goals. ...there could be a button that says 'here are all your friends who are nearby and are indicating they'd like to meet up today.' You click it, you connect, you put down your phone and hang out with them. Instead of being a vacuum sucking up your attention and keeping it away from the outside world, social media would become a trampoline, sending you back into that world as efficiently as possible, matched with the people you want to see. Similarly, when you set up (say) a Facebook account, it could ask you how much time you want to spend per day or per week on the site. ...then the website could help you to achieve your goal. One way could be that when you hit that limit, the website could radically slow down. In tests, Amazon found that even 100 milliseconds of delay in the pace at which a page loads results in a substantial drop-off in people sticking around to buy the product. Aza said: 'It just gives your brain a chance to catch up to your impulse and [ask] - do I really want to be here? No.' In addition, Facebook could ask you at regular intervals - what changes do you want to make to your life? ...then match you up with other people nearby... who say they also want to make that change and have indicated they are looking for the equivalent of gym buddies. ...A battery of scientific evidence shows that if you want to succeed in changing something, you should meet up with groups of people doing the same. At the moment, they said, social media is designed to grab your attention and sell it to the highest bidder, but it could be designed to understand your intentions and to better help you achieve them. Tristan and Aza told me that it's just as easy to design and program this life-affirming Facebook as the life-draining Facebook we currently have. I think that most people, if you stopped them in the street and painted them a vision of these two Facebooks, would say they wanted the one that serves your intentions. So why isn't it happened? It comes back... to the business model.

I scrolled down to read the most recent comment: “Men like mystery, stop showing your body and maybe someone will start listening to you.

The first stop in the oft-repeated looking up of a word is the massive Egyptian-German dictionary, Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache, a project begun in 1897, its five volumes of entries eventually published between 1926 and 1931. The archive of note slips that were used to compile this dictionary—still a standard reference for hieroglyphic texts—has now been digitized. By inputting the page number and word entry from the published Wörterbuch, we can scroll through scans of paper slips containing handwritten copies of snippets of ancient Egyptian texts containing a particular word.

You feel anxious or stressed whenever you cannot find your phone. Even when you are not bored, you check your phone every few minutes because you do not want to miss anything. After scrolling through your social media, you find yourself feeling depressed, angry, and anxious. When uploading a status or post, your focus is on the number of likes and comments you will get, and become upset if the count is lower than you expected.

I tap the link, and it opens up a bright, cheery, robin's-egg blue web page. P&P Bake, it's called. It's clearly one of those WordPress blogs converted into a website, but that doesn't make it any less captivating--- the pictures on the posts are so vivid, I can practically taste them through the screen. I scroll down, glancing at the dessert names, lingering on the pictures. The most recent is Tailgate Trash Twinkies, which are apparently a homemade cake roll infused with PBR; I scroll down and see A-Plus Angel Cake, and Butter Luck Next Time Butter Cookies, and then--- And then, on Halloween, there's an entry for Monster Cake. My breath stops before it can leave my chest, my entire body stiffening on the couch like a corpse. There's no mistaking it. I may have a bad habit of eating Pepper's baked goods so fast, it threatens the time-space continuum, but the bright colors and gooey mess of that cake are so distinct in my mind and in my taste buds, I could see it in another life and immediately identify it. Yet my brain still refuses to process it, and I'm still scrolling as if I'll blink and it will disappear, a vivid, sleep-deprived teenage hallucination. But the further I scroll the worse it gets. The So Sorry Blondies. The Pop Quiz Cake Pops she and Pooja were eating the other day. A few things I've never heard of before, with irreverent, silly names, some of which must be Paige's, but others that are so distinctly Pepper it stings to read.

Elizza continued to scroll. It only got worse from there. Bandwagons of other girls, Libyan and non-Libyan, joined the thread with their own comments, so that within twenty or so tweets about the subject, what started out as blatant appreciation of male physical perfection soon downward spiraled into down-right stalking. She had to stop herself after a few minutes of reading—she didn’t think she could handle much more of it. She only knew of one word to describe the sad little thread, if only she could think of it. What is that word the young kids used these days? Oh yeah. Thirsty.

But the queen thinks only of her country. She will stop at nothing to find the scrolls, for they are the key to her family’s protection . . . and her country’s salvation.

In this era of instant everything, it is unsurprising that music is a choice stress release for hyperactive Americans. Increasing social isolationism and the decline in traditional family life goads anxious Americans to feel a need to zone out in a musical blur, addictively listening to ear splitting music while performing ordinary activities such as walking, doing the laundry, driving a car, waiting at a bus stop, or fixing and eating dinner. A soundless environment is terrifying to Americans. When we listen to music, we receive absolution from our autobiographical history; we take a temporary reprieve from the grind of daily life.

Every step in life is a testing ground. Some active and perceptive people never stop blossoming regardless of what experience they encounter while other people seem to wilt with the slightest provocation.

Feeling oddly deflated, I navigated to the photo app on my phone, curious to see what it could tell me about my life. I felt a little like I was voyeuristically spying on someone else’s life. Technically it was my own life, but it still felt illicit somehow. I scrolled through more than a hundred photos before I stopped. What the photos showed about my own life was just plain depressing. Almost all of the photos were taken at Toast or with the Toast employees at what looked like various pubs. Lots of group shots of me holding a pint with people I recognized as kitchen and waitstaff. There were a couple photos of me and a tall, sweet-looking man whom I surmised was Colin. In all the shots we appeared to be hill walking or standing in a large garden, me holding a bunch of beets or an armful of zucchini. Nicola was right, Colin did have bedroom eyes. In the photos he looked tall and a little gangly, but adorable, wearing an English driving cap and a sheepish grin. He had a freckled complexion and ginger hair. He reminded me of Rory. Apparently I have a type. I sighed and clicked off the phone. In some ways Toast was just as I imagined it, but in other ways this day was not quite what I’d envisioned. It wasn’t just the question of Rory, although that weighed heavily on my mind. It was my apparent lack of a good work-life balance. Did I have friends, hobbies, interests outside the restaurant? The photos I’d just seen would seem to indicate that I did not.

if your inner critic is louder than ever, you’re struggling with procrastination, you’re constantly tired, you can’t stop scrolling on your phone, or you have trouble disconnecting from work, it’s all due to stress.

I know the risk is great, but the lives you save makes up for it. If the end result stopped every hero, there wouldn’t be any. Evil would win every time.” --Micah in the Mage and the Living Scroll

We lay contentedly together, occasionally kissing, my fingers twined in his hair. I loved the feel of it, its texture, its color, and I brushed it back along the nape of his neck. “You’re tickling me,” he said with a smile. “Are you trying to keep me awake?” “No.” I laughed, pushing up on my elbow to look down at him. “It’s just--” I stopped, staring at the birthmark on his neck, the mark of the Bleeding Moon, as it had been called in the legend, and my hand began to shake. “What is it, Alera?” he asked, alarmed. “Nothing. It’s just…” I struggled to form a cohesive thought, for in all my dreams of a life with him, of having children with him, this question had never before occurred to me. “Just what?” He sat up, placing a hand on his neck where I had been playing with his hair. “When we have a child, what will happen? I mean, the High Priestess told me, when she was our prisoner in the cave, that the powers of the Empress of Cokyri were supposed to pass to her firstborn daughter upon the child’s birth, but that they were split between her and her brother when she was born a twin. The possibility of the powers reuniting and passing into the High Priestess’s firstborn daughter gave us our negotiating leverage with the Overlord.” “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” “Well, you have powers, too. I’m wondering…” A shadow fell over his face. “You’re wondering if my powers are unique to me. Or might a child of ours inherit them.” “Yes, or if…” I took a deep breath. “Could they pass from your body and into the child upon birth, like the magic of the Empress of Cokyri?” From the expression on Narian’s face, it was plain this was the first time he had ever considered the question. “I don’t know, Alera. The source of my power derives from an ancient legend and the circumstances surrounding my birth.” He touched my face, then added, “Perhaps it’s time we took another look at the origin of the legend--and we should find out if anything else was ever written about the powers I was destined to have.” I sighed. “I wish London were here. He uncovered the scrolls that foretold your birth, hidden somewhere in Cokyri. He would know what else was written.” Narian nodded, but said nothing more, and I tried to imagine what he must be feeling. Were his powers a blessing or a curse? Would he want them to pass to a child of his? And if a child held them, what manner of life would he or she lead? Then I asked myself the same questions, and an overriding answer became startlingly clear. “It would be good to know, Narian. But it doesn’t matter. I want children with you, and I do not fear the powers you hold, nor would I fear them in the hands of our own child.” He nodded, then settled on his back. I snuggled against him, lost in thought. At some point, I would fall asleep; it did not appear that he intended to do the same.

Four scrolls hung on the east-facing wall, their edges slightly wrinkled with age. Her great-grandfather had spent years painting the scrolls. Each one portrayed a different season- spring, summer, autumn, and winter- in their family garden. Mulan stopped in front of the scroll of spring, studying her ancestor's confident brushstrokes and the delicate cherry blossoms forever captured in midbloom. Her fingers crept up, skimming the painting from the top of the trees to the bright yellow carp swimming in the pond.

Art reflects the current composition of a human soul. Perhaps when the artist finally arrives at the point of making art, an artist perceives all earlier drafts as remnants of their former loathsome self. Perhaps when the songwriter stops writing songs, the singer ceases singing, the musician no longer strums his or her instrument, and the poet no longer strings lyrical verses together they have entered a kingdom of one, a realm of aesthetical and ethical certitude. Perhaps when the writer who creates a piece of literature worthy of bestowing the exalted title of art, he or she must exhibit the same gracious manners by following suit by speaking no more.

No one stops to think.” Most people I know don’t think about culture, or worship, or ways of viewing the world, or idolatry, or felt wrath and felt grace. They are just living their lives. They’re just scrolling through Facebook. They’re just watching box sets. They don’t stop to think. And it’s part of our mission to get them to stop and think—to try and rouse them from their nightmare and bring them back to reality, back to their senses. The idols we worship can’t and don’t deliver what they promise on any level, whether intellectually, emotionally or imaginatively. They can’t give satisfying ultimate explanations of the world. Our task is to make people “stop and think” about their self-deception. To make them “stop and think” about the commitments they make, the authorities they listen to, the stories and scripts they follow. And from here it’s only a short step to get to Jesus.

Is Princess Blaze here?” Six-Claws asked. The teacher snorted. “Do you see anyone drawing tiaras in the margins of their history scrolls? Then, no.” “Do you know where she might be?” “My guess? Drooling over a pile of gems or sharing adoring sighs with a mirror somewhere,” he snapped. “Stop interrupting our lesson.

Human mortality threatens a person’s ontic self-affirmation. Life is a dream within a dream. The past is nothing, the future is an illusion, and my own existence is a trifle. If I can stop living a life of artifice and face my own nonbeing with courage, I will no longer suffer from the demons of damnation.

Finishing large projects can result in a mild or severe thud of depression. The scariest part about completing any demanding project is that irrespective of how exhausting the labor might be the work also arrests a person’s attention. Working passionately is akin to a person consenting to a kidnaping. A person engaged in performing a princely task feels whisked away on a captivating voyage of undetermined final destination. At times, I wondered if the only thing that actually kept me going is the work of crafting sentences. Writing sentences is contagious. Finishing a sentence infects a person with a desire to write another sentence. The feverish rash of writing spread until it consumed all my resources. Once I stop writing, I will need to find a new reason to awaken each day.

Again and again he spoke to Charlotte of things, watermelons and grain and cattle and string, reaper-mowers and harvester combines, chisel mortisers and scroll saws and flue stops and piston rings and grain elevators. Objects existing in time and space.

The best hedge against a sinful and wasteful life is to appreciate what is beautiful. When we observe a beautiful object, plant, animal, or child we are disposed to protect and preserve it. Whenever we see a stunning sunset, or smell the dark fragrance of fertility wafting in the air above a freshly tilled garden, we awaken from a stodgy slumber. Our heart quickens and a smile floods our lips whenever we hear a child excitedly squeal or a puppy yelp in delight. We warmly admire a willow tree gracefully draped over the mossy bank of the churning river. We stop scurrying about to silently observe a bird build a nest or to feed its fledglings. We startle to attention whenever we encounter an enchanting woman, a woman of obvious charm, intelligence, and poise. Whenever and however we encounter the magnificence of beauty it knocks us off balance, we are utterly decentered. Beauty is a primal and destabilizing force of nature. Helene’s frightful beauty, not love, incited the epic encounter between the Ancient Greeks and the Trojans.

Can the act of narrative writing alter the writer’s mental alignment and will an honest chronicle and extended effort at seeking answers to a vexatious series of pending personal questions eventually place the author on an even keel? What other motive, good or evil, could possibly cause an essayist to write in such a torrid manner? With each line that I write, I beg to stop. The lines just keep tumbling out. Is there no end to this nightmarish experience of examination and reexamination? Is there no relief in sight to this modest attempt to form my storyline into an intelligible quest? Many days of writing go nowhere; blank pages replicate the blandness of life, whereas other days I sense progress towards an indiscernible and undefinable goal. If I write long enough, what will I finally discover gazing back at me?

Mapping is sort of visceral,” says Foddy. “For example, you should always use the space bar sparingly.

A couple of years ago, I was hooked on Facebook. I might have enjoyed seeing what was going on with my friends for a few minutes a day, but just touching my phone would quickly spiral me into compulsively scrolling through the news feed, sometimes for an hour or more, getting no enjoyment out of it at all. I would even say to myself out loud, “Why are you doing this? You don’t want to be doing this. Stop!” When I could finally pull myself away, I’d feel drained. I’d been giving myself tiny dopamine hits, like a lab rat with his brain wired to a switch. I wasn’t building toward a long-term reward. It was as if I had eaten cotton candy for breakfast, and now I was crashing from my sugar high.

Aelia, please stop worrying. You look beautiful. We've had large parties before and you haven't been nervous." There was the clink of cosmetic pots and bottles of nard used to perfume the forehead. "I wasn't nervous until you mentioned Ovid would be coming," Aelia said. Aelia was not alone in her love of Ovid's poetry. Passia had read every word the man had ever written. He was considered to be one of Rome's experts on both love and beauty, and most women I knew owned several of his books. When Passia heard he would be in attendance I thought she might swoon. There was the ruffle of a scroll being unraveled. "Could this be one of the sources of your concern? Women's Facial Cosmetics?" I remembered the book. Apicius had bought it and other Ovid titles for Aelia two years earlier as a Saturnalia gift. "I know, I shouldn't worry. But if he didn't know so much, how could he write it down? It is as though he were the mouthpiece for Venus herself!

A person is frequently the victim of his or her own insecurities and latent fears. I need to cease being fretful of a changing world and worried that I will not stack up to the exemplary example established by my forefathers for living life brilliantly. I must stop simply observing life and cease the willful act of disconnecting myself from the pulse of this great nation. I aspire to seek connection with other people, smoother myself in nature’s insurmountable beauty, and work to preserve high-minded ideas and the altruistic purposes this nation founded. Only by freeing myself from a life of self-absorption and by exhibiting profound appreciation for the surrounding world can I ascertain a decisive meaning in life. By recognizing my miniscule place in the world, I will come to terms with the purpose of existence, and only by understanding and accepting my purpose, will I know how to feel right about what I am. Only by understanding my place in history and my tiny role in the continuation of civilization will I come to appreciate all of humanity. I must put my shoulder to the wheel and stop ducking out of performing all exacting tasks.

Smiling to myself, I pictured our family one sunny afternoon last fall. It had been a warm day, and we were on our way to the city aquarium. Dad had the car windows rolled down, and I recalled the feel of the wind in my hair and the scent of Mom’s perfume wafting from the seat in front of me. Mom and Dad were chatting and I was scrolling through my Instagram feed. But the moment the song sounded on the radio, I squealed. “Turn it up!” I said, leaning forward in my seat, enough that the belt tightened across my chest. As soon as Dad reached over and turned the knob, I started singing the lyrics aloud. Both Mom and Dad joined in. With the wind in my hair and the music filling the car, a warmth had filled my insides, almost as if I were wrapped in my favorite fuzzy blanket. The memory was fresh in my mind and I could still see Mom’s head bob up and down as she sang while Dad tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Come on, Dad!” I said, giggling. “Sing with us.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “I’m waiting for my favorite part. I don’t want to stretch my singing muscles.” “What singing muscles?” Mom smiled at him. He put a finger in the air for her to wait. “Here we go.” When the chorus of the song began, Dad screeched out the lyrics in a really high voice. He was trying to mimic the singer’s voice but he wasn’t even close and the sound he made was terrible. I burst out laughing. He ignored me and continued to sing, all the while, waving a hand through the air with wide flourishes, as if conducting an orchestra. He tilted his head back and belted out the high notes. When we pulled up at a red traffic light and the car slowed to a stop, Dad was oblivious of the carload of people alongside us watching him. The passengers of the other car had their windows open too and I stared at them in horror. Their eyes were glued to Dad and they shook their heads and rolled their eyes. “Dad!” I called to him. “Those people are watching you.” But he didn’t hear me and continued to sing. I sank into my seat, my cheeks flushing. He finally realized he had an audience but instead of being embarrassed, he waved to them. “Hello, there!” he said. “Did you enjoy my singing?” The light turned green, and the carload of people cracked up laughing as their car lurched forward in their hurry to escape the weird man in the car next to theirs. Dad shrugged. “I guess not.’ Mom and I burst out laughing too, unable to hold it in any longer. Dad waved a dismissive hand. “They wouldn’t know good music if it hit them in the face.” Tears sprang from my eyes because I was laughing so hard. My dad could be so embarrassing sometimes, but that day, it didn’t bother me at all. Dad had always managed to make me laugh at the silliest things. He had a way of making me feel happy, regardless of what mood I was in. Deep down I thought he was a really cool dad. My friends thought so too. He wasn’t boring and super strict like their dads. He was fun to be around and everyone loved him for it, including my friends. Our little family was perfect, and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Spending all day scrolling through Facebook is to stop our own progress to see how others progress in life...

I think about what makes us lonely on a recent subway ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan. As the train hurtles over the Manhattan Bridge, the subway car is silent, save for the muffled beats of a pop song. A woman up front is reading a book, and a few commuters are dozing. The rest of us are glued to our devices: heads bent, earbuds in, fingers scrolling. The trains sputters and then stops completely mid-bridge; plugged into our own curated digital landscapes, no one looks up. What was once a period of contemplation, boredom, small talk, confrontations, maybe even some light flirting, has been replaced by screens. In addition to filling the blank spaces in our day, our phones double as a crutch to “lean on when we are socially anxious or uncomfortable,” says Julia Bainbridge, a freelance writer and editor, who, in 2016, launched The Lonely Hour, a podcast dedicated to exploring the condition. The world is unpredictable, but our screens provide a convenient buffer against the possibility of spontaneous human interaction.

As soon as I finished my last diary entry, I grabbed my books, stopped by André’s locker (hey, he’s part of my job duties!), and rushed straight to bio. But, unfortunately, I had arrived just seconds TOO LATE. . . . MACKENZIE SHOWS BRANDON THE PICS OF ANDRÉ AND ME! I just stood there FREAKING OUT as Brandon scrolled through the photos. He looked shocked, surprised, and hurt! All at the same time. . . . BRANDON LOOKS AT THE PICS! Right then all I wanted to do was dig a really deep hole right next to my desk, CRAWL into it, and DIE!! Once class started, I could practically feel Brandon staring at the back of my head. But whenever I turned around to make eye contact, he just gazed blankly at his bio book. Of course MacKenzie sat there with a big fat SMIRK on her face. She was SO proud of herself for pretty much DESTROYING my friendship with Brandon. I wanted to walk right up to her and say, “Congratulations, MacKenzie!” and give her a high five! In the FACE. With a CHAIR! Just kidding ! NOT ! Seriously! That girl is lucky I’m a very peaceful and nonviolent person. I just totally ignored her when she started EYEBALLING me all EVIL-LIKE. . . . MACKENZIE,

Love is a panacea for a wound that never stops weeping.

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It’s the person who’s been following us! They’re trying to get the scroll and stop us again!” Caly screamed furiously.

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Then I saw a scroll in the right hand of the one who was sitting on the throne. There was writing on the inside and the outside of the scroll, and it was sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel, who shouted with a loud voice: “Who is worthy to break the seals on this scroll and open it?” But no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll and read it. Then I began to weep bitterly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll and read it. But one of the twenty-four elders said to me, “Stop weeping! Look, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the heir to David’s throne, has won the victory. He is worthy to open the scroll and its seven seals.” Then I saw a Lamb that looked as if it had been slaughtered, but it was now standing between the throne and the four living beings and among the twenty-four elders. He had seven horns and seven eyes, which represent the sevenfold Spirit of God that is sent out into every part of the earth. He stepped forward and took the scroll from the right hand of the one sitting on the throne. And when he took the scroll, the four living beings and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb. Each one had a harp, and they held gold bowls filled with incense, which are the prayers of God’s people. And they sang a new song with these words: “You are worthy to take the scroll and break its seals and open it. For you were slaughtered, and your blood has ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation. And you have caused them to become a Kingdom of priests for our God. And they will reign on the earth.

Failure is a choice, Moba… a decision. You are the only one who can choose to fail. The moment you decide to stop trying…

She stopped at a post from Sierra. A small plate held a neat, square dessert: perfect layers of wafer cookies, banana slices, and pudding, topped with browned meringue and cookie crumbs. It looked like a fancy version of the banana pudding her dad used to get from a bakery in their neighborhood. He'd told her his mom rarely made dessert, but that this pudding was one of the few she did make. It was always a momentous occasion, he'd said, to come home and see a box of Nilla wafers and a bunch of ripe bananas sitting on the counter. Mae eagerly scrolled down to read the caption. Banana pudding is the first dessert I ever learned to make. My grandma taught me how when I was six. Watching pudding thicken over the stove, layering Nilla wafers and banana slices, whipping egg whites into stiff peaks, I fell in love with baking.

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